When You Mentioned Blue
by nikiness
Summary: Charlie makes a promise to Claire as he dies.


**Title: **When You Mentioned Blue  
**Author: **Allie  
**Rating: **PG**  
Disclaimer: **Yes. I own Lost and all of the characters and I am filthy rich. I also have Dom locked away in my closet for my own...personal... use. However, I spend all of my free time writing fic instead of counting my millions. Pfft, I own nothing. Sue me and all you'll get is a Nirvana cd and some cherry coke cans. Trust me, it's not worth it.**  
****Pairings: **Charlie/Claire**  
****Summary: **Charlie makes a promise to Claire as he dies.  
**Authors Note: **_Alrighty, well... this is my much anticipated (pfft, yeah right, the world was just dying for this one.) FIRST EVER "Lost" fic. Yes, I am a "Lost" virgin. Be gentle with me. _

Reviews are much appreciated as they are fed to my muse, Ferdinand, thus keeping him from attempting to eat my hair. If I get enough positive feedback and my muse will cooperate, I will consider expanding this into a multi-chapter story.

MUSE-ic that inspired me: "Take My Hand" by the Used.

Archive if you'd like, just e-mail me ) first, please and fank joo.

This fic is dedicated to all the fan girls on Ex Isle and of course Dom himself for being such an adorable little Englishman. Ahhhhh funny little Englishman, what will you say next? And of course, as always, it is dedicated to Kristen (ChicFrom3) for being my best friend and beta reader.

And now, onto the story...

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When he and Liam were little, they'd had contests.

Anything and everything was a contest to them. How fast they could ride their bikes. How long they could stay up past their bedtimes. How fast they could eat their vegetables at dinner.

And how long they could hold their breath.

Charlie had always won those contests. He'd be on the bottom of the pool long after Liam had floated to the top. His cheeks would be puffed out and his lungs would be bursting, but he would still be clinging to the tile with trembling fingers.

The longest he'd ever been able to hold his breath was a minute and fifty-six seconds.

He'd had a knife, Ethan that is. He'd had a knife, pressed up against Claire's swollen belly. Her eyes had been wide as saucers. They looked even bigger set above her sunk in cheeks.

They'd been walking most of the day and fear and stress had made her face gaunt and her blue eyes shadowed.

When she'd started crying, Ethan had snapped. He'd screamed at her but it only made her cry harder.

"Take my hand," Charlie had whispered as he held out one large hand to her. His fingers were calloused from years of playing the guitar and dirty from hours struggling through the jungle. The black polish on his fingernails was almost completely gone.

She'd slipped one hand into his and he remembered thinking about how frail she felt.

Claire had stopped crying then.

They'd stopped at a clearing between a grove of trees, thick vines were twisted around their gnarled trunks and the air smelled damp. He knew it was raining. Hard, probably. But the canopy formed by the high tree tops reduced it to a small trickle, sliding down the trunks of the trees, getting soaked into the moss covered bark.

Ethan had been talking, Charlie remembered. Talking to himself, mostly. Talking about Jack. How he always had to play the hero.

He'd turned back to them and instinctively Charlie had stepped in front of Claire. He'd felt her pregnant stomach pressing against the curve of his back and the way her hand had tightened around his.

"Too many fucking people around here think they can play the hero," Ethan had snarled, almost to himself when he'd seen this. "Don't you people _get_ it? There _are_ no heroes here. There _is_ no good or evil."

He'd paced again, checking his watch. He was waiting. Charlie imagined he could hear the thud the hands of the clock made as they ticked by another second. Another minute.

Ethan turned back to them, he laughed softly. "Inny, meeny, miney, mo..." He was gesturing with the knife, going back and forth between the two of them with it's point. "My mother says one of you has to die...and I choose..."

"Me."

Charlie took another step forward as Claire's grip on his hand tightened, tried to pull him back. She let out a choked noise as his hand slipped from hers.

"You choose me," Charlie had said. His tone had been clipped, dangerous.

Fifty-two seconds.

He'd started counting the second the vine had cut off his air supply. Claire had screamed and he could hear her crying.

Fifty-seven seconds.

The sound of her crying had echoed inside of his empty body as he'd stopped fighting, just hanging there. It was a sound that made him feel like his heart was imploding in on itself.

He'd heard women cry before, seen 'em too. At concerts, hanging around their hotel rooms. Crying like he and Liam were bloody John Lennon and Paul McCartney or something.

But this wasn't anything like that.

And he realized that he would do anything to make this girl stop crying. He would do anything to bring a smile to her perfect lips that made him shiver every time they formed his name.

One minute and twelve seconds.

His lungs burned and he felt nauseous. Claire was alone now. She was alone with Ethan. He'd listened to her whimper his name until her voice had slowly faded out along with the sound of them thrashing through the underbrush.

He'd never been very good at keeping promises. Not really. He'd promised himself he'd grow up a good Catholic. Not a druggy ex-rocker. He'd promised himself he'd quit using. He'd broken every promise he'd ever made.

But he wouldn't break this promise.

If Ethan so much as thought about Claire in a way Charlie didn't like, he would kill him with his bare hands. He didn't need Locke's knives or Sawyer's gun or Sayid's torture tactics. All he needed were his own hands.

One minute and thirty-six seconds.

Every sound he heard seemed to be amplified times a hundred. No, a thousand. He squeezed his eyes shut inside the blindfold and tried to stay as still as possible. The more he moved, the tighter the vice on his throat became.

Claire. Claire. Claire. Claire... her name became a mantra. To be repeated over and over in his mind. Something to fight for.

One minute and fifty-seven seconds.

He closed his eyes tighter and he could hear Liam's voice. "I bet you can't hold your breath for two whole minutes Charlie!" and then his own. "I bet you I can."

He opened his lips a centimeter, an inch. His words were garbled and choked. Nothing more than wind escaping his mouth as his swollen tongue fought to form the words.

"I bet you I can," he whispered in a strangled voice.


End file.
